


Nothing Of Interest Is Easy

by solonggaybowser



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Asexual Merlin, Background Established James/Percival, Disaster Gay™ harry hart, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Slightly slow burn, Swearing, Trans Male Harry Hart, University AU, although frankly merlin's not doing much better either, look. everyone's queer all right, same age au, which is to say almost everyone is college student age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 12:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22969972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solonggaybowser/pseuds/solonggaybowser
Summary: From the first day of his computer science class, Harry knows he's in for a long semester. Going to tutoring each week just might be what saves him—provided the one tutor Harry is free to meet proves agreeable, of course.
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: 2019 Kingsman Stocking Stuffers





	1. Variable Assignment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elrhiarhodan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/gifts).



> howdy! i'd meant to have this written as soon as the valentine's day round of kingsman 2019 stocking stuffers opened... due to various Life Happenings, that hasn't, exactly,,, happened. but hey! we're here now. this is written for Elrhiarhodan, whose likes included merlahad and university AU; i am _so_ sorry I passed up the perfect shot at they were roommates, but my muse has guided me elsewhere...
> 
> my apologies to y'all british readers, but i don't have the time to do extensive research into every facet of the british university experience; kingsman university therefore is an american institution with a shitload of british students, which is never explained or addressed within the narrative.
> 
> also, being a civilian AU, this fic doesn't use code names for anyone. the real names i'll be using are: Hamish for Merlin; Jody for Tequila; Adalene for Ginger Ale; and Noel for Percival.
> 
> and finally, the title is quoted out of context from Alan Perlis's ["Epigrams in Programming"](https://cpsc.yale.edu/epigrams-programming).

"Dammit, Hames!" yelled Jody, his cards thrown down onto the table. "One more turn and I woulda had it!"

"Actually..." Adalene began, showing Jody her own hand, "if he hadn't won, then I would have. See, I could've taken Largest Army _and_ retaken Longest Road, and..."

"Oh, god _damn_ it."

Hamish laughed, reveling in his victory. "Sorry, mate. One of these games, you'll get your beginner's luck, aye?"

"Yeah, how 'bout right now? One more, let's go!"

"Mm, sorry," Hamish said, now genuinely contrite, "but I've got to leave, actually."

"Ah, piss... All right then. Got class?"

"No, tutoring. A tutoring job, I mean."

Adalene said, "Oh nice, so you did get it. For which one, 101?"

"128, actually."

The two sophomores reacted with some surprise. Jody said, "Geez, Professor Frosh over here."

"We must be a little short-staffed for that one this semester. I asked for 142, but they put me back in 128," commented Adalene.

Hamish said, "Really? I just assumed they put me there 'cos it's the class I actually took."

"That could be true, too."

As they put away their _Catan_ setup and Hamish gathered his things in his messenger bag, Adalene asked Jody, "So are you going back to Lancelot Hall?"

"Uh, let's see." He checked his phone, then shook his head. "Nah, don't have the all-clear yet."

A wrinkle of disbelief in his brow, Hamish glanced up from his bag at Jody. "What? It's the second day of class and Jack's sexiling you already?"

"Haha, yep."

"God. I can't even imagine putting up with that."

Jody laughed again, this time with a note of sympathy. "Ain't that bad for me; just means I come play games in Percy lounge. Plus he lets me use his fridge and shit."

"Well, it's the least he can do," muttered Adalene. Then she addressed Hamish: "Good luck with tutoring. It's the first week, so there shouldn't be too many people."

"Yeah, but anyone who comes in now probably needs a _lot_ of help, right?"

"Hmmm, hypothetically? But in my experience, it hasn't been too bad."

Hamish stood up with his bag. "Guess I'll find out soon enough."

"Later, dude," said Jody cheerily. "Don't bite their heads off, now!"

Wholly out of politeness, Hamish laughed a short laugh. What was it about him that still made people think he was mean...? "Right. See you later."

* * *

In the basement level of the Strong Science Building, freshman Harry Hart hovered by the door to the computer lab. Inside, tutoring for Computer Science 128 was being held, and Harry was well aware of it, having already checked the schedule on Google Docs a thousand times—a thousand _and one_ if you included the instance just a minute ago, although that was just to stall more than anything else.

He was nervous, and he was putting in quite the effort to keep his emotional state from progressing to "terrified". The very first session of CS 128 lecture had left him feeling dismally unprepared—Christ, had he forgotten _everything_ from 101 over winter break? The fact that Kingsman University had the funding for free, walk-in tutoring for many classes, especially lower-division ones, should have been the answer to his problems, _but_ by some grand misfortune every single 128 time slot conflicted with his classes... except for one. The two hours, starting five minutes ago, with a... "Hamish Campbell", the spreadsheet on his phone told him, for the thousand-and-second time.

 _God_. One person—just _one person!_ —Harry would surely have to meet, over and over again, the whole semester, if he wanted to pass this class. Could he really do it? What if they were some kind of nasty, obnoxious, judgmental knobhead? Harry could suffer the occasional homophobic joke, even provide a charity laugh when necessary, if there was something worthwhile to be accomplished from it. But to maintain that cover throughout all of spring... It was nearly enough to make Harry drop the class and abandon all hope of progressing in this field.

But... that was an exaggeration. He _did_ want to learn CS, and if he backed down now without even putting up a fight, then God knows the resulting depression voice in his head would be orders of magnitude worse than the anxiety voice he was currently experiencing.

So. One day. The first day. He would go in the first day and get acquainted with this Hamish, and after that... well, he would re-evaluate the situation. Best not to think so much about it now; he'd wasted enough time faffing about in the corridor as it was.

Harry willed himself to open the door and step inside. The lab was sparsely populated; it was only the first week, he supposed. He went to the closest computer to sign in and log his tutoring attendance. And then, someone talked to him.

"Hey. You're here for 128?"

He was a bit startled, and even more so when he turned and faced the speaker. So _this_ was Hamish... He had spotted the long-haired, stone-faced, and usually jumper-clad bloke around campus numerous times before, his appearance distinct enough that he had stuck in Harry's memory, despite that they had never spoken a word to each other. And... not that Harry had been expecting a particular sort of voice from the guy, but if he had, the deep Scottish brogue he just heard would _not_ have been it.

"Ah, yes, I am," recovered Harry, rather swiftly, he felt. "You must be..." Another peril: he wasn't actually certain how to pronounce this guy's name. Thinking quickly again, he finished, "The tutor." Yes, smooth as butter.

"Aye. I'm Hamish," he said, extending a hand.

Goodness, did Harry dodge a bullet; he had been absolutely about to say "Hammish". He shook Hamish's hand and replied, "Harry. How do you do?"

"You know, I've seen you around... It's nice to finally meet you," Hamish said, with a smile—maybe it was just a polite gesture, but it did go a long way to soften his face. 

Harry smiled back, his mind marginally more at ease. "I was just thinking the same thing."

"Well, have a seat, get set up. Call me over whenever you're ready, okay?"

"Sure."

Hamish returned to his seat at the central table with laptop and textbook before him, and Harry selected his own spot at one of the computers by the room's walls. Sitting down, he did a subtle double-take towards Hamish. Just as he'd thought, one of the stickers on Hamish's laptop was the ace pride sticker that Harry had designed for Pride of Lions; now wasn't that a fun coincidence? And the textbook... _Introduction to Abstract Algebra_...?

Wait a minute, thought Harry as he opened his assignment and the necessary programs and websites on the school computer. Abstract algebra was some advanced shit, yet Harry was sure he had noticed Hamish, in the previous semester as well as just yesterday, in his intro-level classes, among the sea of freshmen in the big Cookson lecture hall. But Hamish was also studying _that_ , and tutoring _this?_

Who the fuck _was_ this guy?

"Well, I tested out of 101 and did 128 last semester," Hamish explained when Harry asked him about it, or at least the tutoring part. He spun himself slightly back and forth in the chair next to Harry. "And... I did well, like, so I tried applying to be a tutor... I wasn't sure if they were gonna take a frosh, but here we are."

"Wow, that's really cool," Harry said, forcing a smile. Oh, god, this was awful. If it were an upperclassman here, or even a sophomore, who was about to judge this baby freshman for being a bloody idiot who could barely program his way past "Hello, World!", well, that was one thing. But a peer, a fellow classmate, who he saw almost everywhere on campus? Somehow that just made everything worse.

Hamish must have picked up on his concern, or perhaps Harry hadn't veiled it as well as he thought. "Look, I'm not trying to show off, you know?" he said, thoughtful, stilling himself on the chair. "I'm here to help anyone who needs it. I know this sh—this _stuff_ isn't easy."

The small grin on Harry's face now was a little more genuine. "It's okay; you can say 'shit'."

So maybe tutoring didn't go as bad as Harry had expected. (The vast majority of things didn't, Harry was aware—not that that did anything to stem his anxiety.) Despite what Hamish's naturally severe visage and imposing presence suggested, he was gentle in his guidance and quite patient through every time Harry had to look up a keyword or a basic bit of syntax.

"It's week one: trust me, we're all de-rusting," he had reassured him.

Before the two hours were even up, Harry had completed his homework, which turned out to be more of a mathematical play-around than whatever daunting task Prof. Valentine's whirlwind lecture had led him to believe it would be. He thanked Hamish, and he left feeling like a massive burden had been lifted. Maybe this course wouldn't be an unmitigated shitshow after all... Maybe Hamish wouldn't even hate his guts by the end of the semester.

It was, of course, easy to say now, when Harry had small problems with simple solutions. The class would progress and the assignments would surely grow more complex... What would happen then?

That was a problem for future Harry, he told himself, returning to his dorm. Today, he finished what he had set out to do, so for the rest of the evening, he was done.


	2. Block Comment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look,
> 
> i didn't abandon a CS degree to _not_ dump gratuitous CS references into this fic

"Hey, Harry," said two voices when he opened the door to his room.

His roommate Noel, who had a profound distaste for the standard-issue dorm chairs, was seated on his bed and doing homework. At his desk was instead his boyfriend James. Harry didn't mind seeing him at all: they were both his friends, and he knew Noel far preferred staying in quiet Galahad over going to James's room in rowdy Lancelot.

Noel asked, "How was tutoring?"

"All right, I think," Harry replied. He hung his coat up on his coat rack, set his messenger bag down, and sat heavily in his chair, determined to move as little as possible for at least the next half hour.

"And the tutor?" James asked, "Is he good enough to see again?"

"Hmmmm... Yes, I'd go a second time, at the very least. I'd like to, you know, gather more data."

"Right. Next week you'll have two data points, through which you can draw a line and then extrapolate to your heart's content," remarked James playfully.

"Hey, a little linear regression never hurt anyone," said Harry, to the laughter of the other two. "But, I mean, the tutor seems okay so far. He's a freshman, you know."

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah, he's this math/CS genius or something. Um, his name is Hamish... Maybe you've seen him. He's as tall as I am, and he's got brown hair, about this long, and—"

"Oh!" interjected James, eyes alight with recognition, "Is he the bloke that looks like murder all the time?"

Unsure how best to answer that, Harry said, "Uhhh."

"James, that's mean," Noel chided gently.

"But he does! You've seen him too; don't you agree?"

"I don't really... look at random people's faces."

"Ah, so you can't contest the point."

"But that doesn't mean it's not mean. Some people have said _I_ look scary, and—"

"Who the hell says that?! You're the sweetest person I know!"

"Exactly. Harry, is the tutor nice?"

"Yes, I think he's quite nice. And for the record, he looks much less intimidating when he's smiling."

James nodded gravely. "Ah, another victim of resting bitch face. Now that's a shame. But as long as he tutors well... well, that's what counts, right?"

"Yes. That's as much as I dare to hope for."

* * *

Roxy glanced over from her laptop at Hamish coming in. "Hey, you want some tea? I've put the kettle on."

"I'd love that, cheers."

Hamish counted himself quite lucky that he and his roommate got on well enough to be friends: the idea of being in a living situation like Jody's made his skin crawl. In fact, he felt doubly fortunate that nothing changed when Roxy came out over winter break. He had even asked her if she wanted to switch roommates; although he would certainly prefer not to rotate out of Percival, if she was uncomfortable living with a cis boy then something had to be done about it.

But instead, she had asked in turn, _Why, do you?_

 _No, not especially,_ he had said frankly.

 _Then neither do I._ And that was that.

While Hamish was preparing his mug and waiting for the electric kettle to boil, he asked Roxy, "You wouldn't happen to know this freshman, uh, Harry, would you? He's about my height; got short, dark hair; um... dresses like he's still in secondary school?"

She laughed, in the manner reserved for something that was funny because it was true. "I've never met him, but I know exactly who you're talking about. I think he's friends with Eggsy, actually."

"Oh. Well, I mean, that's not surprising." Eggsy was friends with basically everyone, it seemed. He could walk into any dorm lounge on campus—and hell, probably some off campus too—and feel right at home. "But you've seen him too?"

"Yes, all the time. It's kind of funny—okay, well, I know, logically, that we're all frosh and this is the most our class schedules will ever be synced up. There's probably dozens of students in our year I've seen a million times and never noticed."

"But you noticed him—"

"How can I not?"

"—how could you not? Yeah, exactly!" They had a laugh about that. "I met him when he came to tutoring, though."

"Oh, did you?"

"Yeah. He's got this flawless RP accent—"

"God, _of course_ he does."

"I expected nothing less." His grin turned guilty, and he turned away to occupy himself with pouring the boiling water into his mug. "But look, I don't... I shouldn't take the piss out of him too much. He's really nice, actually."

"Is he? Oh no, now _I_ feel bad," Roxy giggled, abashed.

"But it's all true...! We've only been saying true things."

There was a fair number of true things Hamish could say about Harry that were not terribly flattering, but ultimately they all came from a place of, not derision, but... confusion, he supposed it was. Harry even wore cologne— _good_ cologne, as far as Hamish could tell. What the hell kind of 18-year-old did that? Was that just a rich boy sort of thing? Hamish had no idea; he was just some bougie kid from the suburbs. The boys he had grown up with managed their scents mostly with brand-name deodorant. Nothing he personally knew could work as a frame of reference for what Harry's background surely was.

Yet he found that Harry absolutely wasn't the intolerable, pompous git his appearance might have suggested him to be. Instead, he was polite and gentlemanly and witty, though also self-effacing, and maybe even a little awkward in a charming sort of way. In short, he was pretty much every benign English stereotype bundled into one convenient package.

 _Boy,_ that did not sound great _at all_.

Hamish had a feeling Harry would be back next week. That didn't sound so bad... He ought to get to know him better, as a real person.

* * *

The next assignment wasn't so bad either, for the most part. At first, Harry had scanned it and felt once again completely out of his depth. He had a go at some of the problems anyway, typing in whatever code seemed to fit, and he was pleasantly surprised to find that his functions passed many more test cases than he expected them to. This recursion business was actually making more sense now than back in 101, he thought.

Regardless, Harry was back at the computer lab at the start of Hamish's hours. There was one concept he couldn't wrap his mind around, not to mention he did need to gather more data and decide if he was committing to this class or not—the last day to drop classes was just around the corner.

Hamish was writing something on the lab's mobile whiteboard. He spared a glance and a smile as Harry signed in. "Hi, Harry."

"Hello." He remembered his name... Was that good?

"How's CS this week?"

"Not bad. I'm regaining my confidence, I think." Harry joined Hamish by the whiteboard. He'd only written some information about his tutoring session—nothing pertaining to the assignment itself. He did have nice penmanship, though.

"That's good, that's good. Hmm..." Hamish took a second to consider what he wrote, then added a small pronunciation guide under his name: _"Heymish Camble"_.

"Do people mess up your name much?" asked Harry casually, as if he didn't almost do that exact thing last week.

"On occasion." Hamish capped the marker and cheerfully remarked, "It's no 'Harry Hart', after all."

Harry laughed, but in an instant a background process in his brain was reading way too deeply into that statement and freaking the hell out. What if that was some kind of subtle jibe, rooted in centuries of Anglo-Scottish conflict and the imperialistic erasure of native Scottish languages and _god_ , he _hated_ Harry already—

Fortunately, a different, more grounded process came to his rescue with an apt response; if there truly was any tension, this might even diffuse it. "You say that, but when I'm talking to the yanks, it's like..." He took a marker and wrote on the corner of the board, _Hairy Heart_.

To Harry's relief and satisfaction, that got a laugh from Hamish, one that seemed sincere. "I guess I stand corrected. Does that ever bother you?"

"Mm, not really, no," said Harry truthfully, "I knew what I was getting into when I chose my name."

"Well, all right. If you're happy with it, that's what matters."

"That's right." There was a moment of dead air as Harry erased his name, or rather the corruption of it, from the board. "Uh, anyway."

"Anyway," agreed Hamish, "welcome to tutoring. Did you have any questions?"

"Yes, in fact. Um... I'm not quite getting the time complexity portion of the assignment."

"Oh, man. Yeah, that—as you might imagine, that shit stymies a lot of people. Well, let me see if I can explain it."

A student, who Harry had noticed looked in their direction as soon as he mentioned "time complexity", stood and approached them. "Sorry, could I possibly listen in? I'm lost on that too," she requested, as another student scooted closer on his desk chair.

"Of course," said Hamish. "Here, let me check the assignment first..."

While on his laptop, he looked up at the sound of the door opening to see a few more people queuing up to sign in. "Hey. CS 128?" All of them indicated so. "Welcome. I'm, uh, about to go over runtime analysis, but after that I'll be—"

The first kid in line exclaimed, "Oh, god, the big O shit? That's perfect; that's exactly what we're here for!"

"Oh. Well then, have a seat."

Seven people in total sat for Hamish's impromptu lecture on time complexity and big O notation; he reviewed the concepts more carefully and fielded more questions than the professor was able to during class. As an instructor, he was surprisingly good, thought Harry. With his help, Harry might just stand a chance in this course.

Eventually Hamish concluded his lecture, satisfied that everyone was ready to at least attempt some progress on their homework. Harry, though, had yet to turn back to the computer and start working, instead regarding the whiteboard, now covered in definitions, mathematical expressions, and freehanded graphs, in silent contemplation.

It didn't escape Hamish's notice. "Harry. You look like you still have some questions."

"Um, no—well, yes, but... it's rather outside the scope of the assignment."

"No, go ahead; If I know the answer, I'm happy to help." Both the seats next to Harry being occupied, Hamish elected to kneel by him, supporting himself with an elbow on the desk.

"It's just that... I'm not quite seeing the broader purpose of all this." Harry gestured with a sweep of his hand to the whiteboard. "I mean, the theory is very interesting, but... is it really so practical that they teach it in a lower-division course?"

"Oh yeah, for sure." said Hamish without hesitation. "Computers are getting better every day, but their users' needs and demands are growing too. And their limitations become apparent with any task of even a moderate size. You run a function with input size one hundred, or ten thousand, or a million or more, and you'll thank yourself for using a linearithmic time algorithm instead of, say, something in quadratic time. It'll mean a difference of minutes, hours, maybe even days."

"But at the level of programming you'd find in real-world applications... I mean, I'd imagine the programs get so large and complex that doing this sort of analysis is more trouble than it's worth."

"Hmm... I don't think so. Well, I suppose it depends on what you're ultimately trying to accomplish... but I can't imagine any large-scale project where you're not searching or sorting or doing anything else with optimizable time complexity."

Harry stared at the board in silence. Then he shrugged and gave in, "Yeah, I guess."

Hamish chuckled, then cocked his head slightly. "Would I be correct in assuming you're sort of a big-picture thinker?"

"Sort of, yeah. I like to know the reason why."

"Has it ever been troubling that so far, programming is just putting words into this mysterious black box that seems to generate results from thin air?"

"Honestly? Yes, a little bit."

"Ha. Well, there's a unit on assembly language programming later in 128; maybe you'll find some answers there—or maybe not. Maybe you won't be satisfied until you take a digital electronics class."

Shrugging, Harry said dryly, "It's my curse, I suppose."

"Oh, I don't know about that. It's good to ask why."

Hamish flashed an encouraging smile, and it only now occurred to Harry that the lad was... well, Harry couldn't think of a better, more precise word at the moment, but he was kind of handsome. The lab's bright lights illuminated the green in his eyes, and he looked up at Harry with a grin that bordered on boyish. Or maybe it _was_ boyish; for all his broad shoulders and rumbling baritone and incredible intellect, he was only eighteen or so, a young man like Harry. James could hardly call him murderous if he saw him from this angle.

Then he turned, scanning the room and the other students. To Harry, he asked, "So did that help?"

"Very much. Thank you."

Hamish stood up and someone immediately called him over, leaving Harry to return to his work with a renewed focus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading so far folks! i was hoping to update around once a week at the latest, but sadly the aforementioned Life Happenings have only been getting More, so i gotta dial back on the fic writing for now. i won't stop completely; i'll defs keep working on this one (being a gift fic, it's my priority), but i'll have more time to write closer to the end of march!


	3. Recursion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> through some balance of fortune and misfortune, i've a new chapter this week

"Sorry I'm late; class went a little over."

Adalene looked up at Harry from her phone and smiled. "It's all good. Ready to go?"

They got into Adalene's car and set off on their monthly drive to the nearby supermarket—Harry to pick up his meds, Adalene to stock up on her drink of choice, diet ginger ale.

"I haven't seen you much this semester," he commented as they left the student parking lot.

"I know! It sucks; I even had to duck out of the first Pride of Lions meeting. But my schedule's all fucked up—"

"Oh, god, that's right." How did he forget? Out of all the spring schedules Harry had seen posted on Facebook, Adalene's was the one that most resembled a chessboard.

"—and it doesn't help that I've got 128 tutoring going on too. But, like, don't get me wrong, I like doing tutoring."

"No, I know. It's nice to help people."

"It is."

"And it's nice to get paid."

"Hell yeah it is. Get paid _and_ free food once a week."

"Really? Hell of a deal."

She glanced, subtly but suddenly, in his direction. "Hey, aren't—aren't _you_ taking 128?"

"Uh, yes, I am."

"Why don't you come by during my shift?"

"I'd love to, but bio lab runs right through it."

"Wow, really? Ain't that some shit. Well, just come see me when I'm not in class if you need anything."

"Well, that's very kind of you... but I simply couldn't, with you off the clock and—"

"Aw, _Harry_ —" sighed Adalene, drawing out the name.

"—your leisure time scarce enough as it is."

"—don't worry about that, dude. We're friends; I'm perfectly happy to help you out."

"And I really appreciate it. But you don't have to go out of your way." She sighed again; she would likely roll her eyes if she weren't keeping them on the road. "Rest assured, I've been attending another tutor's hours, and he's been very helpful."

"Oh, which tutor?" she asked, mildly interested.

"Hamish."

At that response, she brightened considerably. "Oh! Hamish!"

"You know him?"

"Yeah! We're friends; he lives in Percival too. So, okay, he's actually, like, good?"

"Yes. He's very knowledgeable, and patient—most of the time, anyway." Realizing how that sounded, Harry quickly followed up, "What I mean is, uh, sometimes people come in, and they haven't started the assignment, and they expect him to just guide them the whole way through. Like, come on, it's been a few days since the first lecture; at least have _one_ go at it!"

Adalene laughed. "That's not an issue exclusive to CS 128, let me tell you. So does he go off on them, or?"

"No, not at all. But I think he gets disappointed. He just wants us to try."

"And you try, right?"

"Yeah, I bring in what I'm working on and I can tell him what I need help with... It seems like he appreciates that."

"Well, I'm glad it's working out. You know, Hamish might look a little stern, but he's a really sweet guy." They arrived at the store, Adalene pulling into a parking space not far from the entrance. She turned the engine off and regarded him earnestly. "But look, if you ever still need help, I mean it: you can talk to me."

Harry smiled politely, fully intending to never take her up on that offer, if he could help it. "All right, thank you."

* * *

To Harry's surprise, as the days went by he saw Hamish around campus quite often—even though, he was fully aware, there was no real reason to _be_ surprised at that. What, now that Hamish wasn't just another face (distinctive as it was) in the crowd, their daily lives would suddenly no longer intersect? Nonsense.

If anything, it seemed as if they were intersecting _more_. But that was certainly because Harry was noticing him much more often: Hamish waiting in line at the dining hall; nibbling at a bagel during morning lectures in Big Cookson; leaving an Egerton music room with an instrument case... Harry could spot that gangly frame and head of dark hair anywhere, now.

And they would acknowledge each other, at first with a slight nod of the head, as young men are wont to do, then gradually shifting to short verbal greetings, sometimes with small smiles. Nothing more. Nothing more than that felt natural to Harry during these transitory meetings. Unless he were to, say, sit with Hamish during class or dinner, but he couldn't do that. Because they weren't friends, not really... Were they?

It was a slightly different matter during tutoring. Harry would come to Hamish's shift right as it started (his attendance record for tutoring was far better than it was for some of his classes), and Hamish would greet him by name, even as he had to ask some of Harry's classmates to remind him of theirs. Talking came a little more easily in the computer lab, where discussions about the assignment at hand would sometimes wander off into some broader computer science topic. It must have become normal enough, Harry thought, that the one week when he sat in the lab and labored the whole time at his programs in focused silence, Hamish had noticed.

"Harry," he had called out, and Harry turned sharply around, for a hot second thinking that Hamish, possessing supernaturally keen eyesight, had spotted an error from that far away. "How's it going over there?"

"Oh. Oh, everything's fine. I'm working on it, but so far, I've got it under control."

"Okay. Let me know if you have any questions."

Harry had thanked him and returned to his work, almost wishing that he did have a question. Not that he wasn't happy to, for once, have some idea of what the hell was going on in CS, but it was rather lonely.

Perhaps it was last week's silence that motivated Harry to attempt a conversation with him today. Harry had descended the stairs and turned the corner, and there was Hamish, standing by the door, endeavoring to finish a sandwich and coffee.

Harry smiled at him; it was nice that the fellow had some concept of sanitation. "Evening, Hamish."

Hamish nodded his greeting, and he covered his mouth with his sandwich hand as he spoke. "I'll be in shortly."

"No worries, take your time." Why he chose to bring up the next topic, Harry didn't know; it really wasn't the most normal thing in the world to say, but it was the first thing that came to mind. "It's too bad you have to work on Valentine's Day evening, isn't it?"

Hamish shook his head, an emphatic furrow in his brow. "Presently irrelevant." He had a swig of coffee, and remarked, "I'm more bummed about missing Fourth At Firth."

"That's tonight?"

"It's the fourteenth."

"Oh! Obviously, right." The fourth, fourteenth, and twenty-fourth of every month saw a student performance in Firth Campus Center. It hadn't crossed Harry's mind at all that there was one today, since...

"You don't go to those too often?" asked Hamish, before scarfing the last of the sandwich.

"No, I don't," Harry admitted. He had been to exactly one Fourth At Firth ever, in which Adalene and her friend Jody had danced to a mix of electro-swing music. It was—there was truly no other way to describe it—lit. Yet it hadn't instilled in him a habit of regular attendance.

Hamish said, "Why not? Free donuts, support the arts."

"I know, but... I dunno, it seems to always slip my mind."

"Hmmm." He crumpled the sandwich wrapper in his hand and drank his coffee. "I might perform at some point."

"Oh, really?"

"Aye. Well, maybe. Got to try out first, like."

"What would you do?"

"Oh, just play my guitar, and sing. Bog-standard cis bloke shit," he laughed.

Modest though Hamish was, it caught Harry's interest. Having a donut and watching him play some... hmm... What kind of music _would_ he play? Harry didn't even have a guess, which made the prospect all the more intriguing. Hell, he could just do "Wonderwall" and Harry would probably like it, hearing it in that resonant voice of his. "Well, I'll come see you when you're on."

"Yeah?" Hamish looked over at Harry, an uncommonly gentle smile on his face. "You'd come out to your first Fourth for me?"

Harry corrected, "Second," smiling back.

"Your second Fourth? Heh. I appreciate it," said Hamish, throwing away the cup and wrapper. "And thanks for waiting, too."

"Of course." Harry held the door open for him.


	4. Context Sensitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy! sorry for the prolonged silence; i've been too busy and/or bummed to write. still keeping at it though!
> 
> content advisory: referenced familial homophobia/transphobia

"Hey, Eggnog," Hamish called out on the sidewalk.

Eggsy turned around, beaming when he saw his friend. "Wagwan, Hamhock! You got class?" he asked, slowing down in his stride to let Hamish catch up.

"Aye, physics lab. Yourself?"

"Nah, just turning something in. Damn, too bad you're busy. Woulda been nice to hang out."

Walking next to Eggsy, Hamish became suddenly and keenly aware of something about him. Eggsy smelled like... He smelled _different_ , let's say, because as familiar as Hamish was with that scent, something about identifying it in words, even in his own thoughts, was oddly disquieting to him.

So, trying not to think about it, he only said, "Yeah, you've not come to Percy in a while."

"Ugh, I know... Roxy's been on my case about it. This semester's kinda jacked up for me, but I can still eat with you, like."

"The lounge misses you, though," said Hamish, who had already failed in not thinking about it, "and you still want me to play _Sonic Adventure_ , don't you?"

Eggsy sighed indulgently. "God, I want _everyone_ to play _Sonic Adventure_."

Fuck it, he was going to ask. He had to know, or it would bug him for the entire next week, if not the rest of his life. "So... hmm... I don't think there exists a normal-sounding way to ask this, but... why do you smell like Harry?"

That Eggsy's face brightened instead of irreversibly scrunching at the question was something of a relief. "Harry Hart? You know him?"

"Yeah, he comes to tutoring a lot."

"Nice. Yeah, so..." Eggsy glanced around them, and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "I got that _puberty stink_ goin' on, you know? That T super doing its thing now. So I'm losing my mind, _this_ close to drenching myself in Axe—but Harry, he's a real G; he let me use his cologne."

"Oh, that's really nice of him," Hamish remarked sincerely.

"Right? So now I look like a chav, but I smell like a frickin' king!"

Well, now he knew, yet for some reason the vague sense of unease remained. Why was that? Something to do with Harry...? How could that be? He had no problem whatsoever with the fellow, whose proper behavior was clearly no facade, if Eggsy's anecdote was any indication. There was no reason to be nervous about him.

No reason at all.

* * *

"Now let me make myself perfectly clear," Jody drawled, waggling his soup spoon for emphasis, "I _am_ fully cognizant, that the Strong Science Building is, in fact, a building intended for science, dedicated to a person named Strong. _However_ , that does nothing to change how, every time I hear of it, I get a vivid mental image of a building that's absolutely _shredded_."

Along with the regulars of the de facto Percival table, Harry laughed. Eggsy had invited him to sit with them for lunch; he had protested, worried he'd be too out of place, until he noticed Adalene there waving them over, and he supposed the presence of two friends was enough of a buffer. It helped also that once he sat down, across the table Hamish had smiled and greeted him, before turning his attention back to the book he probably had to read for a class that started in half an hour (not that Harry was personally familiar with that experience, or anything at all like it).

Next to him, Adalene said, "Oh, you too?"

"Nah, bruv, you're looking at it the wrong way," said Eggsy on his other side. "It's the building where science goes to _get_ strong."

Jody nodded, as though considering something highly philosophical. "Ah, all right, yeah, like a gym for science!"

The blonde girl sitting next to Hamish said, "Or is it a building in which only strong sciences are permitted?"

"What, like, sports medicine?" asked Adalene incredulously.

"No!" the girl laughed right away—then she backtracked, "Wait, never mind actually, yeah. That's fine. 'Cos I just meant no pseudoscience or shit like that. Flat-earthers or whatever disintegrating upon entry."

Then someone who Harry didn't recognize at all—neither from class nor clubs—interrupted what Adalene was about to say. "And no soft sciences either. Sociology and all those; they wouldn't stand a chance!"

Instantly Hamish said, eyes still on his book, "Oi, that's not cool. None of this talking shit about fields you don't like."

"Now, calm down, mate. No need to get so pissy," was the smug response.

Hamish grimaced and rolled his eyes; Adalene directed a loaded glance at her friends; Eggsy groaned subtly enough that Harry barely heard it. Apparently, though, no one felt like saying anything, so it was probably good that Harry only muttered, "It's true and you should say it."

The rando frowned in his direction and asked, "What's that, mate?"

Harry smiled archly, first at Hamish who was by now regarding Harry curiously, then at the rest of the table. "I said, it's actually a science building exclusively for the study of the strong nuclear force," he said, with perfect delivery. Nearly the whole table laughed at that, and the conversation was revitalized.

* * *

He should have seen it coming.

Harry never truly had a firm grasp on computer science, and he knew it. Every time he thought he was finally getting the hang of it, he'd be laid low by some new and inscrutable topic. Sure, in the past he had always managed to make it through, by way of outside help, sheer tenacity, and divine inspiration. But this week, with this new, arcane unit on logic programming, it seemed that his luck had run out.

Of course, Hamish tried. Bless him, he really did. He held one of his mini-lectures that had become a staple of his tutoring sessions, explaining an example program line by line and sometimes word by word. He even stuck around to try to answer Harry's questions after the other students had returned to their own stations. Harry had listened attentively to every word, and every word _did_ make sense, individually. But to put them together and understand the concepts as a whole was just not happening.

"So is this starting to make sense?" Hamish asked, justifiably unsure.

It wasn't, but Harry didn't dare to say so and make an ass of himself in front of Hamish (and everyone else in the lab as well, but mostly Hamish, who almost certainly was not getting paid enough to deal with this). Instead, Harry responded, "Let me think about it, and I'll get back to you."

Hamish complied, and Harry hadn't missed the twinge of disappointment in his face before he turned to assist the many other students.

The minutes passed relentlessly without any sign of improvement. What few ideas he could even conceive, none worked in execution. The screen burned a dismal image into his mind as he struggled to make sense of the glyphs before him. Head propped low in his hands, eyes flicking intermittently to the clock in the corner of the monitor. A resignation settled within him as he watched the numbers tick up and he did nothing.

And then that was it; his time was over. Behind him Harry could hear Hamish preparing to leave for the night. Closing his laptop, packing up his stuff, picking up his backpack... and... approaching.

"Harry? How're you holding up?" he asked softly.

Embarrassed as Harry was to tell the truth, he was also reluctant to lie. He only shrugged and grunted vaguely.

"I see... Why don't you call it a night? You still have some time before this is due."

"It's not as if I'll understand this any better later," said Harry, trying not to sulk so obviously.

"Oh, you might be surprised what you can come up with, when you leave a problem to simmer for a while."

"I suppose," was all he could muster in response.

Hamish was silent, though he continued to hover nearby. Then he tried once more: "Um, I'm going to Starbucks... If you want, you could take a break, and, come with."

His voice distant to his own ears, Harry said, "No, I have to work."

"Okay," Hamish gave in. "Later then."

"Mm-hmm."

So he left.

Right away it occurred to Harry that he should feel bad. He _did_ feel bad, actually. All through a whole evening of Harry fucking up, and even slightly afterwards, Hamish was only trying to help. Sure, his efforts didn't actually make much of a difference this time, but that was just _this_ time—and he still was doing his best. Try as Harry did to ignore his guilt, it only persisted. And now he had to deal with that _and_ this impossible assignment. Brilliant.

Well... one of those things, he could try to solve.

He shut down the lab computer and made his way to the campus Starbucks, hoping he wasn't too late. Fortunately, Hamish was there, at a small table by himself, browsing his phone indifferently, a coffee cup in front of him (well, Harry couldn't be certain it was coffee, he supposed). And better still, at Harry's approach he looked up and smiled broadly. "Harry, hey."

"Evening," Harry said politely.

"You wanna sit?"

He nodded and did so. "I must apologize. I'd been quite rude to you before you left."

"Huh? No, it's no big deal. You were just frustrated, right?"

Hamish didn't seem very bothered at all, but... "Regardless, I shouldn't have spoken to you that way, and I'm sorry."

"Well, it's all good, mate."

Harry hummed and nodded in grateful acknowledgement, and then they were quiet. Hamish took a sip of his drink, and Harry considered fabricating an excuse and leaving—despite that he'd just sat down—before things got too awkward.

It wasn't necessary: Hamish broke the silence. "So," he said, once he'd set his coffee back down and put away his phone, "what other classes are you taking?"

"Well, you've seen me in Prof. Adams's lecture. Besides that, um, I've got Maths 112, art, biology, and bio lab."

"I see. Then... what's your major?"

"Biology."

"Oh. So not computer science?"

A rueful smile twitched at Harry's lips. "Once upon a time I fancied as much. Grand ambitions of a CS/bio double major, but I've had to demote it to a minor."

"Minor, huh? So you're committed to some form of CS track."

"Yes, so long as it's feasible."

"Can I ask, uh..." Hamish folded his hands on the table, breaking eye contact to regard them briefly. "What... what makes you want to pursue it at all?"

It was the first time Harry had been asked that. He _did_ have an answer, though not a very organized one. "You know, it just seems sensible," he happened to begin. "Computers and technology, they're not going away anytime soon. So to learn and understand them will benefit me in navigating this strange, unprecedented society."

"That's good; that's very forward-thinking of you," Hamish said earnestly, "but you don't _have_ to take classes to do that—hell, you don't even need to learn how to code. A little initiative and curiosity, and... data literacy, that's what's most important."

"Well, it's also sensible as a, um, backup career option, of sorts."

"You're not sure biology will work out?"

"It's just that... I hope to become a lepidopterologist—uh, that's someone who studies butterflies and moths—and unfortunately, these days zoology isn't considered very, hmm, sexy. If I were going into something more like molecular biology, you know, it would be a different story."

"Oh, I see. You're just trying to, like, secure your future."

"As best as I can. I can't rely on my family's money forever, even if I wanted to. I'm not..." Harry paused, regretting that he'd already started that sentence. Was this an appropriate subject to discuss with Hamish...? He had to say _something_ now, though. "I'm not exactly the favorite child," Harry decided to imply.

Gently, Hamish asked, "Does your family give you a hard time?"

If he wanted to know, then maybe it was okay. He didn't seem like the kind of person who would ask something without understanding what the answer might be. "It's just that I was put on this earth for a purpose, and it wasn't to be a gay, introverted, superfluous son, with strange hobbies, and anxiety. Basically the literal exact opposite, in fact. And it's clear to me that my parents aren't happy with me for it. As if I'm doing it to spite them personally..." Harry paused. He could go on, but... that wasn't really true. Even when invited, he didn't like to speak of his home life; it exhausted him to dwell on that unhappiness. "... So, you know. I doubt I can count on them for much," he finished tepidly and shrugged.

Hamish frowned, his eyes solemn but sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Harry. That's awful of them."

"Thank you," said Harry, softly and simply.

They were quiet again. Harry supposed he had better change the subject to something lighter, or perhaps use that excuse to leave (though the optics on that move, at this point, would not be so great).

Once again Hamish beat him to the punch, this time slamming the rest of his drink and putting down the cup with a decisive hollow thunk before declaring, "Okay, here's the deal: I'm gonna help you finish this assignment, right here, right now."

Harry's eyes snapped directly to Hamish, whose serious gaze did not waver. "Pardon?"

"I suppose it doesn't have to be _here_ ," said Hamish, misinterpreting Harry's confusion, surely deliberately. "We could go back to the Strong lab, or go to Firth, your dorm lounge, your room—wherever works best for you."

Grasping at whatever shreds of politeness he could summon while so taken aback, Harry attempted to decline, "You—you don't have to do that."

"You're right, I don't. What's your point?" Hamish asked, almost challenged.

"I mean, it's just—it's not right; you're not being paid to—"

"God, fucking _whatever_. I'm a grown man and I'm gonna spend my time as I like. And the _only_ two reasons I won't help you now is if you have a prior obligation or if..." Uncertainty crept into his expression, softening it at last. "... If you just don't like me. Is either of those true?"

"... No," Harry relented.

"Then it's settled. Where are we working?"

"Let's go to Firth, I suppose."

"Good choice." Hamish stood up and looked expectantly at Harry. "Right, let's be off."

So they went. Even on the way there, Hamish was asking him questions about Harry's progress and struggles with the assignment, leaving Harry little time to entertain ill moods or anxious thoughts.

And once they had set up on a Firth sofa and then could talk to each other for longer than five consecutive minutes, it was worked out actually rather quickly what exactly Harry's cognitive roadblocks were. Getting past them was, of course, another matter, but Hamish continued undaunted in his efforts—writing out pseudocode on the whiteboard one moment, and then sitting next to Harry and looking up documentation the next, all the while talking a lot more animatedly than Harry expected from a sepulchral-voiced Scotsman. (It probably _was_ coffee that Hamish had been drinking, was a distant thought Harry had at some point.)

Harry, for his part, did his best to keep up. True, he didn't want to incur the judgment or ire of his tutor by way of his own incompetence (a most familiar worry), but also... well, he liked it. He liked having Hamish's full attention, and he liked hearing him speak and laugh and think out loud. If asked why, he could not say, only that he enjoyed these things for their own sake.

He had to wonder if Hamish thought anywhere near the same about him. Try as he did to maintain his gentlemanly persona, the stresses of the evening had chipped away at his composure, and when he tried to build his program but encountered yet another error, he couldn't help but gripe, "Oh, for fuck's sake."

"What's up?" Hamish asked, already scanning Harry's laptop screen.

"Computers are _bullshit_ , that's what."

He regretted it as soon as he said it—how thoughtless of him to disparage one of Hamish's interests—but Hamish only laughed, "You're damn right, mate."

Harry looked at him. "Wait, really?"

"Oh aye! The more I learn about computers, the more I'm amazed bloody anything works at all. I mean, when you think about it, they're basically just, _rocks_. They're rocks that we've somehow wrangled into doing _maths_ , but only if we talk to them in this unbelievably precise, contrived manner."

"That sort of precision is why this should be easy, isn't it?" he grumbled as he corrected his stupid mistake.

" _Should_ it? 'Cos you're seeing right now that it's not. And _I_ know it's not; I've made far worse mistakes just yesterday. You're doing fine, Harry." That made him stop and again turn to Hamish in surprise. "I'm guessing it doesn't feel like it, but you are. It's normal to struggle. But you're still thinking about it, and asking questions, and working it out... and that's good. You know?"

"Well, thank you. I'll try to..." _I'll try to believe it,_ was what he wanted to say, but no, that would sound dismissive. "I'll try my best," he said instead, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't like to see Hamish's approving grin.

By the time they adjourned for the night, Harry had completed all but one problem, and for that they had developed a solid plan of action. It was an impressive amount of progress, especially considering how Harry was feeling just a few short hours ago. How easy it was to forget the difference a clear head and a little support could make.

"Thank you for going to all that trouble," Harry said as they were returning to their dorms. "I really do appreciate it."

Hamish shook his head modestly, his short ponytail wagging in the streetlight glow. "Oh, no bother. I'm happy I could be of some use."

"More than that, I assure you. This unit's looking much more doable now... But, I'll probably return next week anyway."

"That's fine by me. It's good that you come so often."

"Hm. Inflating your attendance figures for when you argue for more funding."

"Yeah, that does help with that," Hamish laughed, before becoming a touch shy. "But I mean... I like talking to you, like."

"Do you really?" Harry couldn't help but smile. Naturally Hamish was obligated, socially and occupationally, to interact with him during tutoring, and to hear that he could at least enjoy it... "I like it too."

"Well, I'm glad."

They came to a stop in front of the Galahad building. "Until next time," Harry said.

"Aye. Good night, Harry."

"Good night."

He went up the steps and lingered in the doorway for a short second to see Hamish walking away.


	5. Exception Handling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please pray for harry
> 
> he's fine he's just the most oblivious man on earth

Hamish fluttered open his eyes and unhappily regarded the wall, not feeling that much better than when he had gone to bed five hours ago. Still, he knew—and on some subconscious level, his body surely must agree—that five hours was far better than no hours. Especially considering all the other shit he had to do today: history exam, then physics lab, the week's maths problem set, laundry at some point, and tutoring...

He rolled onto his other side with a thoroughly discontent groan and redirected his scowl across the room. (Thankfully Roxy had an early morning class that day, and he could do such undignified things in peace.) God, tutoring... this week's assignment was a tricky one, too. He won't be able to finish his problem set there, that was for sure.

Well... at least he would get to see Harry, he thought with a faint smile. Many fine students attended his hours, but secretly he did like Harry the most. It wasn't always a simple task to answer his questions or give him guidance (not that Hamish took this job expecting it to be easy), but even now it was surprising, how thoughtful he was: though he had no special love for the field of computer science, he was always striving to learn more, to think one step ahead. And Hamish admired that. (And his warm heart, charming smiles, neat attire and all...)

If only he could be his private tutor, so they could have more time to explore his questions and indulge his curiosity. Or even the opposite: if only he didn't tutor him at all, so they could just be colleagues and friends, and maybe...

Wait a second.

Something wasn't right. Wide awake, Hamish sat up and scanned his surroundings. Nothing was out of place, but... the way his room looked right now...

The square of sunlight filtering through the blinds caught his eye. A subtle change, but that had to be it: that patch of light wasn't usually shining so low when he woke up... which could only mean...

He shot out of bed to snatch his phone off the dresser and check the time.

"Oh, _fuck!!_ "

* * *

Per his weekly routine, Harry entered the computer lab right on the hour and signed in. Then he turned to greet the tutor, and something very conspicuously unusual about this session came to his attention.

Slumped in his chair and arms crossed, Hamish had already trained on him a thoroughly unamused stare, which, Harry could only assume, was due to his outfit, notably consisting of 1) a kilt and 2) the Kingsman Lions T-shirt every freshman picked up in the first week of class, his being a couple sizes too large. The whiteboard behind him explained, in bright red writing, that he had overslept and was running late for class _and_ it was laundry day—and, _yes_ , he had undergarments on.

It was such a drastic departure from his typical jeans and jumper that Harry simply couldn't help a giggle of disbelief, which of course did not escape Hamish's notice. His eyes narrowed further. "Is there something you'd like to say, Harry?"

Although it was probably a bit gauche to laugh at him like that, he didn't really seem all that upset. So, putting on his suavest air, Harry said, "Why, you're looking sharp tonight."

"Uh—" Hamish blinked, completely disarmed; perhaps Harry imagined also a slight blush on his face. But he recovered quickly and retorted with good-natured sarcasm, "Yeah, whatever you say. Sit down already."

Actually, the ironic compliment turned out to be more sincere than Harry had originally thought. He found himself coming around, quite rapidly, to Hamish's new look. A look that was of course very silly, but... not... really all that bad. Harry was sneaking a few glances towards him, not to see if he was busy with helping someone else but just to look at him. Indeed, he was a handsome fellow no matter what he wore: the man truly makes the clothes. And it helped that... his bare arms and legs were rather...

Oh, _shit_ , was this creepy? Harry snapped his eyes back to the monitor, the shame warming his cheeks in spite of the room's cool temperature. _Why is it always so bloody cold in here anyway? This is a computer lab, not a fucking server farm!_ he thought, scrambling to distract himself.

Once he had collected himself and was able to exhibit a fucking modicum of decency, he called Hamish over—to ask him a genuine question about programming, thank you very much—and took great care to listen to what he was saying.

"Oh, I see," said Harry, pleased with himself for keeping up, "yes, I've got to switch these variables."

Sitting next to him and suspecting nothing, Hamish said, "Yep. And, uh, those ones too, in the other line."

"Here?" Harry gestured with the mouse.

"No, I mean... up..."

Harry looked at him. Hamish had his arms folded again and his legs crossed at the shin, and there was the overall impression that he was trying not to betray any discomfort. "Up?"

"Up—up there." Hamish extracted a hand to point at the monitor, otherwise moving as little as possible.

It took a second to follow what he was indicating, but there it was. "Ah, I see." Harry fixed it, and then said, "Hamish?"

"Hm?"

"Do you happen to be... cold?"

Tucking his hand back under his arm, Hamish said, "What? No. I'm not cold. I'm Scottish."

"You're Scottish," Harry muttered in confusion. "What—what does that have to do with..."

"It means I'm naturally resistant to the cold. Obviously. ... Besides, even if I _were_ cold, what am I supposed to do about it?"

Try as Hamish did to shrug it off, he really did seem pretty miserable. Harry wanted, quite strongly, to help him. A first impulse popped into his head that he would have agonized over if he had more time—but he was talking to Hamish, his kind and clever tutor—and maybe arguably his sort-of almost-friend??—right _now_ , and something _had_ to be done. "Well, maybe I can help. Here..."

Curiosity soon became concern when Hamish caught on just what he intended to do with the coat he was taking off. "What, really? That's not—you don't need to do that."

"Of course I don't. But I'm a grown man and I'll do as I please with my possessions."

"Okay, seriously though, you don't; I'm not cold," Hamish persisted in claiming.

A nearby student called him out, "Hames, no offense, but you're full of shit. Take the damn coat."

"Cheers, Brandon. Shut up."

Chuckling at the exchange, Harry said, "Well, I won't make you wear it, but there's still a lot of time left... You should be comfortable whilst you're here."

"... All right, if you insist."

Hamish took the coat and put it on. It was a fine fit, for he and Harry were close enough in build that a coat wouldn't tell the difference between them. Not only that, he was looking far less silly now—such that it was apparently a natural cognitive leap to imagine him in formal highland dress, which for some reason was accompanied by Harry's heart skipping a beat or five.

"What do you think?" Harry asked, displaying the appropriate level of casual friendliness. "Is that any better?" 

"It's nice, aye." A small smile flickered on Hamish's face as he glanced down at himself and back to Harry. "Well, I'll—I'll be right back, I've gotta just, check the assignment page, for something."

He hurried away to his laptop on the center table, and he didn't actually come right back since someone else needed his help, but that was fine. Harry was just glad he wasn't so cold now.

And he must have liked it enough to keep it on the whole time, even when his shift was over and he was trying to return it.

Harry had brightened at his approach and said, "Hey, thanks again for all your help."

"Oh—yeah—of course." He held his backpack in one hand and indicated the coat with the other. "So, you're wanting this back now, right?"

"Actually... it's rather chilly tonight, isn't it? You ought to keep warm on the walk back too." An excessive gesture? Perhaps, but if Hamish would benefit at virtually no cost to Harry, then why not?

"But what about you?" asked Hamish with an uncertain frown.

"I'll be fine. I've got long sleeves and trousers on, at least."

"But... ehm... it's _your_ coat. You should have it."

"I have another like it. You can hold onto that one for now."

Silence as Hamish considered this, his frown giving way to a softer expression. "You're really okay with that?"

Harry nodded and offered in turn a gentle smile. "I am."

"Oh. Well... thank you." His eyes flicked vaguely towards the floor. "Um, see you after, then," he said quietly, taking his leave.

Oh—! Did Hamish want to hang out with him after—oh. No, that was merely a common Scotticism... Nothing he should read too much into.

God, how embarrassing! Sure, no one else was aware of the stupid line of thought he had just entertained, but he was embarrassed for himself, it was _that_ stupid. As nice as it would be to spend time with Hamish outside of tutoring... well, there was no reason to get that excited, now was there?


End file.
